Nothing can prepare you for the raw, naked fear.
As cawing ravens circle. Shields lock, death draws near.
Each man's life, a thin fragile thread.
Fate weavers whet their blades readied to claim the dead.
Insults are hurled between linden walls.
Warriors fame-wealth, bragging, embellished to awe.
Worms will eat many of my mead-bench brothers.
Who last night sang, feasted, drank, stole a last night with lovers.
Now, as heaven's candle dispels the night's mist.
We stand. The air scent heavy with fear-sweat and piss.
Knees shake, hearts tremble before the oncoming slaughter.
Relentless doom turns men's bowels to water.
Nothing can prepare you. Not the bruises bought when trained.
Nor tales of old warriors, scarred, limbless and maimed.
All put aside in a lust for fame and glory.
That skalds over centuries may sing of your story.
Resplendent in mail, our helms polished to silver.
Beating spear shaft against shield like a rumbling thunder.
Our lines advance to one another. Shield bosses clash.
Spears stab seeking flesh, deathly swords flash.
Where flesh is found warriors choke on their blood.
A crimson rain falls. Red colours the mud.
Death rushes to take the dying in its' pitiless embrace.
Resignation, desperation, met in each dying face.
Nothing can prepare you, as the senses are hit.
Near corpses clutch vainly as their entrails spill slick.
But then fear flies as a deathly joy takes hold.
The lust of battle as of the skalds have oft told.
Your arm and sword, as one trading blows.
You laugh as the lifeblood pumps from your foes.
Their shieldwall broken. The craven take flight.
While the fame clad resolve to die where they fight.
Nothing can prepare you. The sight of brothers lying broken.
A numbness takes hold. Words hoarded, unspoken.
That night in the mead hall, horns are raised to the fallen.
Brothers boastful of battle, we the shieldwall companions.